


A Modern Day Ghost Story

by fullfrontalnerdity



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullfrontalnerdity/pseuds/fullfrontalnerdity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprisingly, being a ghost isn’t Laura’s biggest problem right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

In 2011, I died. I was hit by a drunk driver on my way home from buying sea monkeys. I know what you’re thinking: “what a lame way to die!” I like to tell the other ghosts that I died saving an old paraplegic woman from a burning building; it makes me feel cool and ethically superior. The worst part of the whole death thing wasn’t the pain but, rather, the bitterness I felt at actually having died at twenty. Especially considering I had bought a ridiculously expensive car the day before. What a waste. 

After ten years of Sunday school that my over-bearing father had forced me to attend, having been constantly surrounded by miserable children who couldn’t care less about Jesus, I had obviously expected to immediately be met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates of heaven. Disappointment number two. Not only was good old Pete nowhere to be seen, I instead found myself in front of an entirely different gate. It was made of black twisted metal and on a large sign that hung from a rusted chain read Silas Lunatic Asylum. The strong smell of skunk hung thickly in the air (this is probably the ideal time to note my deep hatred for skunks and rodents, ever since I was attacked by a psychotic group of possums as a child). The gate stood between two large leafless trees. Their trunks were gnarled and knotted and the dense forest that sprung up beside them seemed lifeless and infinite. I was scared and confused and wearing disgusting soiled undies from the accident. All in all, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. 

When I heard the distant howl of a wolf, I was pretty sure that I was either in a cheesy clichéd horror movie or hell. The latter seemed more likely, considering a) I wasn’t Jennifer Aniston and b) hello, I was dead. I remember looking around for clues, like The Devil or Hitler or maybe a demon with spooky scissors for hands (you know, something that would prove I was indeed the newest member of the underworld). When I didn’t see anything other than the unnerving trees and the tall black gate, I figured I probably wasn’t in hell. Plus I had been a totally upstanding citizen, apart from having stolen a tube of lipstick at age twelve from a Macy’s department store. 

For what felt like hours I stood before the gate. I was in too much of a state of shock to process that maybe I was meant to go through them. I waited for someone, anyone, to come collect me; or to suddenly wake up from a crazy nightmare in my tiny apartment, only to be screeched at by my anal retentive roommate about screaming in my sleep. Neither happened. 

During my twenty years of life, I had been forced several times to watch a myriad of horror movies by my film buff cousin. Granted, I had been tricked into most of them. I remember sitting in the theater for Paranormal Activity 2, having no clue that the next few nights would be sleepless and filled with anxiety over the slightly open closet door. So, after having been terrified over and over again, (you think I would have learned that “it’s not that scary” really meant “you’ll be terrified to sleep with your arm hanging off the bed for the rest of your life in fear of something grabbing it”) I had mentally compiled a list of things not to do should I find myself in a situation similar to what was then my current predicament. Number one, never run up the stairs when being chased by a 6’5 murderer in a mask because it will inevitably lead to being trapped and then brutally stabbed by a knife so comically large it almost looks like a miniature sword. Second, become an expert at opening and unlocking doors, because at one point you will almost certainly be faced with a tricky door while being chased. If you’re in a group, don’t ever separate or split up, it just makes it easier to pick you off one by one. Finally, if you hear a sound in the other room, don’t go and check it out, I promise you, it’s the killer. Remembering this checklist I had made during a night of paranoia, I was pretty certain that walking through the mysterious gate would ultimately lead me to one such horrible ends I’d seen in the movies (I had evidently completely forgotten that I was, in fact, already dead). 

After several more minutes of internal debate, in which I went back and forth between a) opening what I had then nicknamed Spookilicious Gate of Doom or b) standing indefinitely before them, I decided, finally, to throw caution to the wind. I pushed on the gate doors and of course, they were locked. I shoved my body against them like a madwoman. Now that I had decided I wanted in, I was possessed. I’m positive that had someone been watching me from afar, they would have thought me insane and or immensely stupid. When I realized my manic shoving was doing nothing, I attempted to slip in between the gate’s bars. With half my body on the other side, I was ecstatic. I was so freakin’ close. Naturally, I soon realized that I had celebrated too early. I was stuck. My left boob was so squashed between the gates I thought it was only a matter of time before it popped out of my back.  
After several extremely uncomfortable minutes lodged between the gate bars, I managed to slip myself out the way I had come. Of course, that meant that I had literally achieved nothing (apart from a now bruised boob and ego). 

As I contemplated my next move, I noticed a figure approaching from beyond the gate. I had spent so much time examining the gate and the spooky trees that I had failed to notice a long winding path on the other side. As the figure approached, I contemplated running but there really wasn’t anywhere to run. I certainly wasn’t about to go flailing about the creepy forest; God only knows what hellish beast would be awaiting me there. As the shadowy figure got closer, I was able to make out a few details. First, the figure was quite obviously a man and, from what I could see, either had an unruly black beard or was wearing a raccoon around his neck. I was pretty sure the beard scenario was more probable, but given the circumstances, the raccoon thing was not all that unlikely. Second, he was wearing a top hat, and I remember thinking how I wished top hats would come back in style (and not by hipsters, like they did with polaroid cameras and big rimmed glasses). Finally, I noticed his clothing. One would imagine a bearded man in a top hat would dress pretty dapper (we both know you’re imagining Abraham Lincoln right now). This man, however, was wearing Hawaiian themed board shorts, a bright yellow t-shirt that said “Are you there God? It’s-a-me! Mario!”, along with a hideous pair of crocs. If I’m being completely honest, I hated him from the moment I laid eyes on him. I could never trust a man in crocs. 

Once he had made his way in front of me, I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out of a nearby bush and tell me I’d been punk’d. It wasn’t until I reminded myself that I was, in fact, a nobody, and that Ashton Kutcher probably had very little interest in me, that I stopped eyeing my surroundings for hidden cameras. The man and I stood before one another for several seconds of awkward silence, before he finally spoke.

“Can I help you?” He asked, his voice quiet.

“Yes, actually. Can I interest you in a copy of the Watchtower?” I said. 

The man clearly didn’t appreciate my hilarity and, while I laughed at my own cleverness, he eyed me with what is best described as disinterested disgust. Now, not only was he a man in crocs, he was a man in crocs with no apparent sense of humor. He didn’t even have the decency to give me a half-hearted, fake, nose-breath chuckle. You know, one of those uninterested laughs where you violently exhale breath through your nostrils and smile in that “I’ll humor you” kind of way? Not even that.

We silently stared at one another through the gate. His eyes were dark, unforgiving, and surprisingly distant. The more I looked, the more uncomfortable and frightened I became. His stare was unnatural and glazed; it felt like he was looking beyond me, further, deep into the dark forest behind. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that although his physical presence stood before me, his mind did not. I suddenly became paranoid that a corporeal embodiment of his cognition would sneak up behind me. 

While I wanted to turn around and run, I also realized that this man was my only way through the Spookalicious Gate of Doom (which I will abbreviate as SGoD for brevity’s sake from now on. You’re welcome.)

“Can…can you let me in?” I asked, my confidence now visibly shaken. “I need to make a call.” 

I attempted a charming little smile. I hoped it would look like one of those smiles that says: “Look how cute I am. You can trust me. I am most definitely not going to kill you in your sleep because I am a good girl, from a good family, who would very much like to use your phone for a completely legal and local phone call”. By the look on his face, I am almost positive it was unsuccessful. What, in my mind, was a sweet and amiable little grin, probably read: “Hello. I am here to murder your family. Please let me in so I can begin my slow process of individually removing each one of your eyelashes. I will also be making many long distance phone calls as well. Thank you”. He stared at me a little longer before speaking.  
“I’m not supposed to,” he said finally, his gaze becoming more fixed. “The Dean says there are already too many of you. She says I mustn’t allow anymore of you in.” He looked quickly behind him. His eyes turned frantic and he gnawed nervously on his bottom lip. He had begun picking at a dark scab on his left hand and within seconds, dark sticky blood oozed from the wound. 

“Why do you keep coming here?! Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” He yelled, curling himself up into a ball on the ground. 

In hindsight, I probably should have known he was crazy BEFORE I started speaking to him. I mean come on, the clues were all there. 

Clue #1 – He was wearing crocs. I’m convinced only sociopaths wear crocs.  
Clue #2 – He didn’t laugh at my hilarious Jehovah Witness joke.  
Clue #3 - He had the crazy eyes.  
Clue #4 - The sign on the SGoD read Silas Lunatic Asylum. 

I’ll admit that Clue #4 should have been a dead give away, but you’ve got to cut me a little slack; 30 minutes ago I was happily deciding what to name my new sea monkeys (Tara, Willow, Buffy, Faith and Anya if you’re curious).

I had pretty much decided I would take my chances in the forest when I heard a voice behind me.

“Thomas! Why aren’t you inside? It’s arts and crafts time. You’re supposed to be making bird-houses out of pine cones and glitter!” a woman huffed.

I quickly turned around and prepared myself to be attacked by a group of criminally insane arts-and-crafts-loving gang leaders. Instead, I was met with a short, redheaded girl in mom jeans and a puffy purple sweater. Walking right past me, she took a large key out from a small clutch and unlocked the SGoD. She knelt down quietly and softly grabbed the man’s elbow.

“Let’s get you inside, Tom. I’m sure we can get Danny to cook you up something nice and warm, hm? Would you like that?” She asked, gently raising Thomas to his feet. 

Thomas, although seemingly complacent, was pointing frantically at me. His eyes were wilder than before and his scabbed hand was now completely covered in blood.

“Perry! Perry, there’s another one! The Dean told me not to let her in. I did good, right Perry? Did I do good?” He asked the girl, his blood soaked hands feverishly waving at me. 

The girl sighed and nodded her head. She gave him a kind smile and began leading him away from me. Admittedly, I was a little insulted that she hadn’t stopped to introduce herself to me, or, I don’t know, apologize for the trauma I had just endured. Had I met her in line at a Walgreens I would have confronted her about her rudeness, but I was very much in need of her at the moment, so instead, I jogged up behind them and reached for her arm. 

There aren’t enough words in the English language to accurately describe what it feels like to watch your hand pass through somebody else’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this, I know it's a little quirky. Obviously there's a lot more chapters to come. Will probably get bumped up to Explicit later. You can find me on tumblr if you'd like, my name is the same :)


	2. Chapter 1 - The Fortune Teller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura dreams.

So, living as a ghost at a lunatic asylum isn’t quite how I expected I’d be spending my time in the afterlife.I’d been brought up on a steady diet of communion wafers and Christian guilt, so you can imagine I felt pretty cheated when I found out I’d have to spend the rest of my undead days surrounded by what can pretty much only be described as the craziest group of people ever grouped together in the history of the universe.Of course, living as an incorporeal being in a crazy house wasn’t bad enough, though.Oh, no!I would have gladly haunted Nurse Ratched and Mac Murphy.I’d have torn it up with Jessica Lange and Sarah Paulson.Girl, I would have interrupted my ghost ass off with Angelina and Wynona.Instead, I got Silas.Silas, where being crazy _wasn’t_ the weirdest thing about you.

 Silas was, for all intents and purposes, an insane asylum for the supernatural.  That’s right, my friends!  Being crazy just wasn’t crazy enough; I was surrounded by mermaids and minotaurs and immortal fairies from the other side of the veil. We had werewolves who liked to cheek their anti-psychotics to later sell for moonshine, sirens who maliciously attempted to enchant the staff into giving them extra servings of tater tots, and please, don’t even get me started on that asshole Big Foot, I just know he’s behind the illegal gambling ring.  The only real silver lining in all of it, which really was more of a poorly sewn lining made of leftover drain hair, was that I was completely and utterly invisible to them.  Well, to most of them anyhow.    Life as a phantasm from beyond the grave would have been an incredibly lonely afterlife if it weren’t for the few who _could_ see me. 

 Despite my horrifically bad luck in having been placed in the heart of humanity’s collective nightmares, there were, admittedly, some activities that brought me immeasurable pleasure and joy.  For instance, with the help of Lafontaine, a poltergeist who had been banished from their homeland for conducting questionable scientific experiments on the resident gnome slaves, we mercilessly haunted our resident human, Perry.  Perry was the head nurse at Silas and I’m almost positive she had somehow managed to convince herself that the weird goings on here were completely normal and merely a figment of her overactive imagination (how she justified the presence of the three headed trolls I’ll never know).  She was perpetually optimistic and almost supernaturally kind.  She treated the residents with compassion and tenderness and there was almost nothing in the world I enjoyed more than watching her attempt to rationalize the sudden appearance of floating pots and pans.

 “I could have sworn I’d put those dishes in the sink!” Perry exclaimed, as Danny, Silas’s giant/human hybrid chef, tried to collect the floating cutlery.  

 “As if cooking for a thousand isn’t hard enough,” Danny said, while dodging a particularly vicious fork throw from Laf.

 The kitchens at Silas were where I spent most of my days.  When I wasn’t off trying to uncover the secrets of the Leprechaun’s Alchemy Club, or trying to document the many identities of Elsie, a wood elf with multiple personality disorder, I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the busy kitchen.    Danny, with the help of the gnomes, worked round the clock to feed the many residents of Silas.  It certainly wasn’t easy, given the strange and sometimes horrifying dietary requirements of many of the patients (302 eyeballs dipped in chocolate?  I mean seriously) but there was something strangely comforting in the scheduled routine of it all.

 “Thomas has been following me around all day.  He’s back on his ‘ghosts are haunting me’ kick, which I guess is better than his ‘The Dean’s trying to murder me’ one, but still,” Perry said, somewhat frantically trying to tie her messy curls into a neat bun on top of her head. 

 “Betty says she found a dead mouse coated in peanut butter in his beard last night.  Really wished I been around to see that,” Danny laughed, trying to re-organize her knives while Lafontaine re-arranged them the moment she turned her back.

 “It wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve found in there.  I think he gets a sadistic thrill out of watching me try and fish out whatever he’s found in the yard.”  

 Thomas, undoubtedly, seemed to have a strange fascination with Perry.  When he wasn’t ominously staring off into the distance, he could usually be found five or six feet behind her, a look of awe and devotion in his otherwise dead and lifeless eyes.  I swear I’d even once caught him gently singing to a lock of her hair.  There was something about him that really frightened me, which is saying something considering the company I kept.  It may have been that he was the only non-appartion who could see me, or the fact that I still wasn’t entirely sure _what_ he was, but either way, I tried to maintain a distance of at least 20 feet from him at all times.  

 “I better get going though, I’ve got an orientation to get to.  We’ve got two new patients coming up the hill and we still don’t have beds for them,” Perry said with a sigh, her shoulders raised in what was beginning to seem like eternal tension.

 “Ya, I’ve got to start chopping off those fish heads for the trolls on the 4th floor anyways.  I’m going to smell like rotten seafood for weeks.”  

 I was somewhat excited to learn that we’d be getting new patients, so I followed Perry out of the kitchen to her office.  I could hear Danny’s _Goddamnit, stop throwing fish tails at me Laf, I know you’re in here!_ from behind me as we left.

 

—

 Orientations were always a nightmare, but I absolutely revelled in them.  I loved meeting the newcomers, although _meet_ is probably not the right word, considering none of them even knew I was there.  It was fun discovering what new types of creatures existed, or what mental illnesses were most common among certain races (most leprechauns were schizophrenic and I had yet to meet an elf who didn’t have some sort of narcissistic personality disorder).  

 Perry, of course, was a complete ball of stress, as usual.  She carefully laid out her pamphlets ( _101 Things You Should Know About Silas Hospital, What To Do If Your Bunkmate Has Put A Curse On You, Things You Should Definitely NOT Say To A Troll, I’m Immortal But Want To Die, What Now?_ etc).  The new patients were on a tour of the hospital with one of the other nurses and while we waited, I attempted once again to strike up a conversation with Perry.

 “So, those trolls really did a number on the greenhouse, eh Perr?” I asked, twirling one of her pencils in my hand.   Perry, obviously, couldn’t hear me, and I could tell she was desperately trying to mentally justify why one of her pencils was floating, but made no move to try and put it down.  “You got any big plans for this weekend?  I hear there’s going to be a big dance on Saturday.  Wonder if that cute centaur from Room 103 will ask me?” I joked, playfully punching her on the arm.  Of course, my hand went straight through her, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.  

 Since my early days at Silas, I often amused myself by having one way conversations with Perry.  I was desperate for company and there was something likeable about her presence.  I soon found myself talking to her for hours, revealing my deepest darkest secrets to her as she administered medications and handed out cookies.  It was sad, but despite her never having spoken a word to me, she’s was the best friend I had.  Sure, Laf was fun to hang out with, but they enjoyed haunting the other patients far more than I did.  They seemed to get an almost insane amount of pleasure from messing with the others and there was something in their eyes that was sometimes unsettling.  

 “I wonder what type of nutbars The Dean has sent us this time.  Am I right?” I asked, picking up her _Drugs Are For Thugs_ pamphlet and casually skimming through it.  

 Perry eyed the pamphlet suspiciously and nervously checked her watch.  That’s when the alarm went off.  It was loud and piercing and I knew from my couple of months at Silas that it was going to last awhile.  I’d grown bored of waiting for the new patients and ninety percent of the time the alarm simply meant that one of the kitchen gnomes had accidentally caught on fire while sneaking a smoke break, so I decided to simply go back to my room.  In my first week at the hospital, I’d found an abandoned janitor’s closet on the 5th floor.  I’d dragged an an old bed into it, put up a couple of pictures I’d cut out from one of Danny’s cookbooks and decorated it with a completely dead cactus I’d found in one of the group therapy rooms.  It wasn’t much in the way of eternal resting places, but I’d grown to appreciate it for what it was.  I lay down in bed and once again began to wonder what I had done in life that could have possibly landed me here.  I fell asleep and for the first time in months, I dreamt.

 

— 

 Back when I was alive, my father and I used to go to the Freak Show Circus every time it swept through town.  There wasn’t much fun to be had as an only child living on a relatively small military base in Germany, so whenever the flyers went up and the big tops came through, I basically needed to be sedated.  You’d have thought the Spice Girls and the pope were coming through, just to see me.  I was absolutely insufferable.  Through the eyes of an entertainment starved child, there was something magical and awe inspiring about the circus.    The huge coloured tents and the diverse cast of characters fed my childhood wonder until I was obese with amazement. I was a glutinous little monster desperate for amusement.  My father would have to hold my hair back each night the circus was in town as I vomited up ten children’s share of cotton candy and churros.  But my favourite part of the circus wasn’t the clowns, or the acrobats, or the elephants; my favourite part, bar none, was the fortune teller.  

 In a small rickety little tent by the edge of the circus she’d sit, her hazy crystal ball laid out on an old fold out table, her neck and wrists adorned with chunky green and gold jewellery.  She wore dark red lipstick and she’d always have her dark blonde hair pulled back in an over-tight bun, the skin of her forehead stretched painfully tight.  I’d sit down before her, my knees bouncing in barely contained excitement, and she’d lean forward and place her wrinkled hands over mine.  And then, in heavily accented english, she’d say: 

 “ _Welcome my child.  Do you wish to know your future?”_

 I’d nod, and she’d make a great show of waving her hands around the crystal ball, her eyes rolling back into her head, a deep guttural humming coming from her chest.  And then she would begin.

  _“My child, I see great things in your future.  Great, but terrible things.  Dark, crushing things.  Bloody things and scary things and unknowing things.  These things will tear at you, and claw at you, and bite at you.  And oh my child, you will bleed.  Yes, you will bleed.  You will bleed until you are hollow and empty.  But you are a phoenix.  Yes, a phoenix little one.  You were born to die and you were born to rise.  You will sprout from the ashes and although you make feel weak, you will be strong.  Oh, how strong your new roots will be.  You will grow taller than ever before.  But beware the woodsman my child, for she will be envious of your branches.  She will want what is yours and she is cunning.  Do not fall for her beautiful words little phoenix.  There is also great friendship in your future.  Deep and lasting friendship.  True friendship.  The woodsman will try as she may to take that from you as well.  And I see love.  Oh, how I see love.  Love that fills you and consumes you and possesses you.  Love so strong and so devout and so pure that it will blind you.  But beware of this love too my child, for it will come with sacrifice.  A great and terrible sacrifice.  Do you see?  Do you see…._

 And then the fortune teller would shudder and heave and gesture for the door.  And I would leave.  It would be over before I’d even known we had begun.  She told me the same story every year, word for word, and every year, I looked forward to hearing it again, hoping and praying she would finish my fortune.  She never did.  Her words scared me, but there was something in them that I yearned for deeply and incomprehensibly and I knew with all my heart that they were true.  

 When my father and I were forced to move once again after he’d been re-stationed in Toronto, I didn’t miss my friends, or my house, or my school, I missed the fortune teller and her words.  I missed her rickety old tent and the dark smell of incense.  When I returned years later for university, I went back to the circus, eager to see her again.  But the circus wasn’t how I remembered it.  Suddenly the tents weren’t so big, and the elephants looked skinny and the clown’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.  My fortune teller was nowhere to be found, her tent instead replaced with a port-a-potty and a broken cotton candy machine.  The other performers swore to me that there had never been a fortune teller in their show and I often stayed up at night wondering if I’d simply imagined her.  If she’d been a complex figment of my childhood imagination.   

 But that night, in my dreams, I saw her again.  This time, she wasn’t alone.  Beside her stood a girl about my age, her dark hair framing her pale face.  She was unbearably, achingly, beautiful.  The fortune teller stood, placing herself between us, and gently took my hand.  She smiled and gestured towards the girl and then spoke, her voice the same after so many years.  

  _“Do you see now child?  Do you see your future?”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is such a weird little fic. I'm struggling a bit with keeping a humorous element to it. Apparently writing comedically is 50x harder lol? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it. Come talk to me on tumblr! My name's the same :)


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